Skellig
"''Heed my words matey, cursed we be. Cursed by the black hearted prince, says I!"'' - William "Billy" Skellig Physical Description His clothes are tattered and he reeks of salt water and rum; hands ragged and scarred, with black broken nails, and a sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. At his belt, you see an old cutlass and on his dusty jacket you see a frayed emblem denoting him as a former sailor for Lordaeron’s fleet. Even for one of the Forsaken, this specimen before you is even more bedraggled and the look of a long life of turmoil and hard work is evident. Often seen at the Salty Sailor in Booty Bay, drinking his drink and mostly keeping to himself. Occasionally he’ll mutter something about a lost hat, or suddenly cry out some sea chanty in an old tottering voice that unsettles the other tavern patrons. Biography 'Dead Men Tell No Tales' For the most part, Booty Bay at night is quiet save for the soft lapping of waves against the dock and the chatter of tropical birds in the jungles beyond. Once the blazing hot sun sinks below the horizon, all the bustle and noise is contained in one single place: The Salty Sailor Tavern. Run by a goblin named Skindle, the Salty Sailor hosts one of the roughest crowds in Azeroth. Famed for both the drinks they serve and the reputation for unsavoury folks. Tonight is an especially rough night, mostly due to the presence of three particularly rough looking sailors. Upon their arrival, the level of noise seems to drop as all eyes shift cautiously to watch the trio approach the bar and grumble an order to the barkeep. With nervously shaking hands, the goblin places three mugs of grog on the scrubbed wooden bar counter. Eventually, the noise level returns to somewhat normal after the men taste their drinks. After some time, and after a few rounds of grog, the three sailors seem to relax somewhat and grow more daring in their presence at the bar. Whistling lewdly at one of the serving wenches, they call her over. “Looking for a goodtime, lass?” one of them says to her, groping her with filthy hands, “Have ye any friends for a couple of seadogs such as us, eh?” Trying her best to remain calm, the serving girl merely shakes her head and untangles herself from the one sailor. “Belay yer advances on that wench, Mark!” says another of the sailors, the oldest of the three, “We’ve got a task on our heads and the Captain will have ours if we’re not returnin’ with what he’s needing.” Turning to the serving wench, the oldest sailor flips her a few coppers. “Heard ye of Zanzil lass?” he says in a low voice, “we’ve been hearing ol’ Crank Fizzlebub’s been poking his goblin nose about looking for information. Where would that little bilgerat be?” The serving wench backs a few steps back and attempts in vain to hide the fear in her voice. “Nothing to tell ye, ” says the girl, “and I’ve a mind to keep it that way what with that Curse we’ve been hearing surrounding that troll, Zanzil.” The three men chuckle at the girl like a pack of hyenas on a zevra. “The curse is ruddy nonsense, wench” the first sailor jeers back, “just superstition to scare away the weak hearted.” “No fear have ye of evil curses, says you?" says from behind them a voice so gravelly and cold that the whole room seems to freeze, “Arrgh...properly warned ye be, says I.” The three sailors turn their gazes upon a decrepit figure sitting at a table in the far corner, nursing a flagon of warm rum. So tattered and torn are his clothes that they can hardly make out that it once was a uniform of the Lordaeron Navy. The more startling thing to the sailors is the obvious fact that this individual is no longer living in the traditional sense. Long since dead, with rotten teeth, haggard black nails, and decayed skin; the forsaken sailor continues to speak without looking up from his drink. The room goes silent as the forsaken starts his tale. Many of the regulars have heard this tale before, but none dare interrupt his recounting. “Hear ye a dead man’s tale of curses, lads. Take heed whilst I tell ye the gruesome details o’ me demise. A sailor of His Majesty’s Royal Navy was I, born of Kul Tiran blood and raised on th’ mizzen since I was knee-high. Then recruited under Proudmoore’s fleet and made First Mate to a stout-weather ship.” “Brave seamen we were, hired to sail north and bring with us the King’s grand army. With hardened jibs, we sailed throughout the nights; full speed to the frosty shores of Northrend. Unsuspecting we were of the treacherous act of that black-hearted Prince, what did us in. With a rictus grin, the forsaken’s brings his gaze up to look at the three sailors, empty eyes sear into their souls with years of sorrow, “Set upon us a bloodthirsty horde he did! Those of us that were left to keep weather eyes on the fleet had little time to muster our defence. Hordes of trolls and ogres, burned our ships, all sunk below the waves. Caught sight we did of the so-called Prince on the shore, along with his dwarven companions, but they did nothing. Sat and watched us with treacherous eyes as we sank to our watery graves!” “A curse he placed on us, that miserable cur,” the dead sailor barked, slamming a rusted old cutlass down on the table, “Cursed to rise again and serve the Prince whom murdered our crew and later slaughter his own flesh and blood. Doomed to serve a damned armada and heed his bidding we were. Ghouls and hellish souls gathered together, no choice of our own. That is until that wench elf broke free and loosen his unholy noose around our necks.” The old seadog pauses, lowers his head once more and gazes upon his rum, now long since cold. “Free now of Arthas’ grip, says I, but not free from the vengeance I seek; vengeance on those that abandoned our fleet and refused to come to our aid. Vengeance on those selfish curs what deemed our lives forfeit and gave up the fight against the thrice damned Scourge. Such curs as those under Duke Falrevere’s flag, a bastard fleet with sails of blood.” At the mention of the Duke, the three sailors stand up from the bar and draw their cutlasses with a snarl. “Damned searat,” the oldest sailor snarls, “heed your words with a weather tongue or you’ll find yourself food for the sharks by morning.” “Heed me words, says you? Aye blood sails indeed and cursed dogs ye be tonight. Ye come seekin’ adventures and tales of curses, aye? Sure then ye come to the proper place, mateys!” The forsaken gets up from his chair, gripping the cutlass in a bony hand. He starts to chuckle softly as a mist forms down at his feet. The three sailors glance around nervously as a faint green-blue light start filtering through the dry wooden floorboards. Scuffling and wet sploshes can heard down below. “It be too late to alter course, mateys... and there be wayward souls lurking in this here cove, waitin' for ruddy bilgerats such as yerselves to come forth. ALL HANDS ON DECK!” With a shout the floor boards crack apart and bony arms reach forth. Unholy growls and groans fill the tavern as a whole crew of ghouls climb up from the murky waters below the tavern. The three sailors shriek and cry in terror as their legs are held fast by the ghouls’ icy grips. They hack away at undead limbs in a futile attempt to break free. Slowly they are dragged back down underneath the bar. The small army of undead pulls them down and soon the sailors’ voice are muffled by the thrashing waves below. The Salty Sailor grows silent. The forsaken sits back down at his table and returns his gaze to his rum once again. He slides a coin purse on the table. Ten silver for another flagon of hot rum and the rest to cover the damages. Skindle the innkeeper snatches the gold and quickly counts it. Like times before, the hole in the floor will be simply patched up and this gold should definitely cover the cost. Eventually, the tavern returns to normal. The patrons once again resume their drinks and the serving girls continue to make their rounds. And as before, the old tattered sailor sits alone and gazes at his drink. Category:Forsaken Category:Horde Death Knight Category:Death Knight Category:Fisher Category:Jewelcrafter